


Out of Boredom

by Unforgotten



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Depression, M/M, Past/Referenced Alcohol Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/pseuds/Unforgotten
Summary: Hank and Charles slept together out of boredom as much as anything else, in those years, and they haven't done it again since they began working to reopen the school. When Hank finally goes to Charles again, boredom has nothing to do with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [still_lycoris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [still_lycoris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris) in the [xmenrarepairs17](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs17) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> They both agree that their drunken and lonely fumbling back when they were alone is best forgotten and claim they have put it behind them. Only slowly as they build their school together, they both realise that the last thing that either of them want is to put it behind them.

The worst thing about those years had been the boredom, Hank thought. Once the last of their students had gone—not _gone home_ , probably, but simply _gone_ —not their student anymore—not their concern or their problem, so what point was there in worrying about where they'd go or who else would take them in, according to Charles—there had been nothing left to do other than perfect the serum. Once that was done, there was nothing left to do but run errands for Charles when he needed booze and they needed food, or to do the cleaning since Charles had let all the house staff go along with the students and the teachers who hadn't been drafted.

After a few weeks, Hank had fallen behind on the cleaning. After a few months, he didn't care anymore, having finally caught up to Charles, who hadn't cared to begin with. Then, there was nothing to do but run to the grocery store every couple of weeks. There were no experiments he cared enough to run, no books he cared enough to read, nothing he cared enough to do except take the serum (every day, like clockwork, so he wouldn't have to see himself the way he was underneath), and make sure Charles didn't kill himself. Because Charles was trying to—with the serum, with the alcohol, with the way there was never even any of his laundry for Hank to do because Charles cared even less than he did and never bothered to change his clothes.

Charles had given up, and if Hank hadn't fallen quite that far, his most frequent activity during those years was sleeping. If you sleep for long enough, it turns out it's that much easier to stay down; you can sleep eighteen hours a day and still feel like you need more. If there's nothing you want to do but sleep, you resent your friend for needing you to make another batch of the serum, for needing you to give yourself a high enough dose to get into town and back, for needing you at all when you're the one who needs to not be here anymore. Most of their fights—the ones that weren't about Charles' serum use, or the way he sipped out of a flask or a bottle every waking minute—were nasty, writhing things, Hank saying he'd go tomorrow and Charles picking at him until he went that day, instead, wishing almost that he could just keep driving, past the grocery store and onto something, anything, else.

Sometimes, though, Hank would find that he couldn't sleep. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, and he'd lie there in his bed and stare up at the ceiling for hours, trying to will himself back into unconsciousness. It never worked, and what always ended up happening was this: The boredom would be too much, so he'd get up, and he'd go to Charles' room. Charles claimed he slept better on the serum, in the quiet, and yet somehow, even without his gift, he'd always be up, waiting for Hank.

Those years were mostly a blur, the way things are when there's nothing happening, nothing from outside intruding to make its mark. But Hank remembered those sleepless night very well, and always would: the way Charles said his name, warm and welcoming and so much like the way he'd been before he'd lost everything; Charles' arms around him, Charles' mouth on his, the way they'd rut against each other before Charles would reach into his pajama bottoms and—

Hank remembered very well the way Charles sounded whenever Hank took him into his mouth. He always sounded surprised; his fingers always curled suddenly in Hank's hair, sudden and hard enough to hurt. He remembered the way Charles tasted, just as unwashed as he looked; he remembered the way it never seemed to matter, because this was something to do, not so much a release as it was something _different_ , for once, the only thing that marked the difference between January and February, February and April, April and September.

Yes, the worst thing about those years had been the boredom. But things were better now, since they'd decided to try again with the school—an effort that would succeed, if what their visitor from the future had said could be believed. Charles thought it could. Hank wasn't sure yet, but he was pretending to be.

He was pretending partially for Charles' sake, because Charles wanted this so badly and he hadn't wanted anything in going on four years. But more than that, Hank was pretending because it was something to do. It was something to do that wasn't getting up—to go to the bathroom, or eat, or make sure Charles wasn't dead yet before dosing him with more serum, or running that one errand—briefly so that he could get back to sleep as soon as possible. There was so much to do, between repairs to the house, hiring teachers, regaining their accreditation, working on all the new experiments and projects that had blossomed in his mind as soon as he was busy again. Where Hank had once spent eighteen hour a day sleeping, now he spent that much or more working, getting along on no more than four hours of sleep per night. He didn't seem to need more. He didn't want more. If he could have gotten by with no sleep at all, he would have been okay with that. He'd slept enough of his life away.

He and Charles never talked about those nights in Charles' room. The way they'd come together, hating themselves and each other—it never should have happened. It never would have, if they hadn't been the way they'd been, insulated and isolated away from the rest of the world. There was nothing to talk about.

Still, some nights, even when he was exhausted, Hank found himself looking up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He could see better in the dark, now that he was using the serum less, and so he'd count the bumps on the ceiling as he remembered those nights in Charles' bed. Most of what he remembered was the warm way Charles had looked at him, and what it had always felt like to touch another person after weeks or months of not touching anyone. Sometimes, he got hard thinking about it, but he never touched himself. He would have, if things had been the way they were before, but it didn't feel right now that Charles had his gift back, now that he might overhear.

A year after the work started, the school opened. Then there was just as much work to do, if a different kind of work. Hank had forgotten how much he liked having other people around. He never had before he'd met Charles, before he'd found others who were like him, who wouldn't stare at him, or if they did, would say how cool they thought his feet (or, later, fur) were, instead of acting like he was a freak. Then, when it had been just the two of them, he'd somehow convinced himself that he liked it better that way, when no one could look at him but Charles, who didn't matter since Charles was even more fucked up than he was. Now, there were twenty-seven children in this house with him, and three other teachers, and if sometimes it was too much and Hank had to retreat into his lab for a while to recharge, it was still so much better than it had been before.

Hank kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen that would make them close their doors. But the first semester passed without incident. The winter break was like holding in a breath, the students' first day back in January like letting it out again.

Halfway through March, Hank found himself lying in bed, fully awake, occasionally turning his head to check the clock, to find that there were four, no, three and a half, no, three hours left before he'd have to be up. He was starting to appreciate a good night's sleep again, now that the world had slowed down a little, now that he didn't have to rush and do things before there was nothing for him to do but sleep his days away again. 

Of course, now that he appreciated his sleep, he clearly wasn't going to get any of it, at least not tonight. So he got out of bed and headed out into the hall, intending to go to his lab and work on specs for the new Blackbird for a while before breakfast. He would set an alarm in case he got too absorbed—then no one could complain he'd missed his first class or two of the day because of being holed up downstairs.

Hank meant to go to his lab, but his feet took him the opposite direction instead, a direction familiar enough that he didn't realize he'd gone the wrong way until he was standing in front of Charles' room. The light was on inside, leaking out beneath the crack of the closed door; so Charles must be awake, and there would be no going to his lab after all, to pretend this hadn't happened.

Hank stood there for several minutes, trying to decide. Charles didn't say anything, not a word or a thought. Hank thought about those other nights, how much he'd needed them then; he thought of how much happier they both were now. How much they'd accomplished working together, how long it had been since he'd last found Charles passed out on the couch and been uncertain, for a moment, if he was still breathing. They'd been so ugly together, for a while, but now there really wasn't anything more beautiful than Charles lighting up as he discussed a curriculum, or a student, or all the ways he wanted to branch out so this place would be so much more than just a school, some day.

Hank stood there, trying to decide, right up until he realized he had already decided, and that there was nothing for it but to knock on the door. 

He'd never knocked before, but things had been different then.

"Come in," Charles said, and his voice was exactly the same.

Really, it was the only thing in the whole room that was. It was relatively tidy now. No bottles all over the floor—nothing on the floor, in fact—and the carpet had been vacuumed recently, and the bedspread and Charles' pajamas smelled a bit like they'd just come out of the dryer. There was a wheelchair by the bed, where it had been relegated to the closet before, and as for Charles himself...he smelled faintly of soap and shaving cream, the way people always did to Hank provided they showered and shaved every day.

"Hank," Charles said, and that was the same, too.

Hank approached the bed, and Charles reached for him—and then Hank stopped. He was remembering too much, feeling too much, and it was making fur sprout up on his arms, his legs, his cheeks, a too-familiar line of goosebumps up and down his body. He'd been taking the serum just once in the mornings for almost a year now, and so far it had been enough, but it hadn't been enough for this.

He opened his mouth to say, 'I should go,' but before he could, Charles said, "Hank. It's all right. I'm different, too."

Hank had gotten close, before he'd stopped; close enough for Charles to reach up, to brush his fingertips against Hank's furred jaw. It was such a strange sensation—no one had ever, ever touched him when he was like this. At least, not outside of a fight. No one had ever touched him when he was like this, and that was fine because who would even _want_ to?

 _I do,_ Charles said, and that was something else that was different, that had never happened all those other times. He was flushed, his eyes were dark, Hank's eyes sharp enough that even in the fairly dim light from the lamp he could see where Charles' pupils ended and where his irises began. He could hear the beating of Charles' heart, the swishing of his lungs, both faster than they'd been when Hank had first come in. _Oh, my dear, I want you very badly. I'm so glad you came._

It couldn't be true, but to Hank's shock he found he wanted it to be. He'd never thought he did, never thought he wanted anything other than to be normal, but now he found himself drawing even nearer to Charles, shuddering as Charles' fingers slid deeper into his fur. Before he knew it, he was in the bed, hovering above Charles, Charles' hands stroking the side of his face, the back of his neck, undoing the buttons of his shirt, skimming his stomach just above the waistband of his pants.

Hank groaned when this happened, unbidden, and that was when he realized he was already hard. Charles realized it at the same moment, and slid his hand down farther, made a low sound in his throat at what he found there. Hank realized why, a moment before Charles said, already reaching for Hank's fly, "I daresay you've _doubled_."

Charles sounded so pleased, smelled even more aroused than he had a moment ago, and yet— "I don't know if this is going to work," Hank said.

He couldn't fuck Charles like this, could he? Even if he tried, he could hurt him—and depending on what Charles' sensation was like below the waist, they might not even realize it until later.

"We'll figure it out," Charles murmured, drawing Hank out of his underwear, wrapping both hands around him. _It's not as if we have to figure it all out tonight. We've got all the time in the world._

That wasn't true, not really. They had so much less time than they'd used to, so many people and responsibilities that wanted them. At the same time, it was a truth they'd been living for more than a year and a half now—working, making a difference, maybe it would let them use the time they had better than they ever could have when time was all they'd had.

But Hank would think about it later. Not that much later, probably. He had a feeling he and Charles might sit up together and talk for a long while, the kind of talk they'd never had in those years alone; the kind they had a few times a week, these days. But for now, there wasn't a lot of room for anything other than the sensation of Charles' hands around him, pumping him, causing a warmth to spread through Hank's limbs, his whole body.

He bent his head down, and kissing Charles for the first time in nearly two years was so familiar, and yet so different than it had once been. The difference didn't have much to do with the fact that Charles had brushed his teeth before bed, or that Hank's mouth had more and pointier teeth than it had the other times. Boredom hadn't brought him here, to start with, and if they were alone together right now, neither of them was ever really alone anymore. And that made it not only different, but much better than it had ever been before.


End file.
